My father and I were outfitted as hunters – we both had rifles. Another man who was either my father's father
or my father's father-in-law was also with us. My father looked
if he were only in his mid 30s and the other man as if he
were in his 50s.

We were inside a large
building, which appeared to be an abandoned office building.
Apparently some bears were living in the building and we had come to
hunt them. I was rather ambivalent about the hunt; it seemed that
I had been thrust into the hunt without any forethought or
preparation, and I was unsure I really wanted to participate.
However, I did know that I was afraid that a bear might attack me,
and I knew I would shoot it if it did.

My fear was compounded by the
sound of the bear: I could hear its low growl emanating from
somewhere inside the building. I was afraid it would jump out at
me at any minute. My father and I cautiously moved through the trashed and
abandoned rooms, coming ever closer to the sound of the growl.
When we reached one room, I pointed to a door on the other side
from where the sound was coming – I was sure the bear was just
beyond that door.

Without hesitation my father
walked through the door. I watched as he raised his rifle to his
shoulder, aimed and fired. I was surprised that the sound of the
gun was so muffled, hardly the loud explosion I had expected.

I ran to my father to see if he
had hit the bear. Once I reached him, I saw that my father was
standing at the top of a flight of eight or nine steps. At the
bottom of the stairs was a rather strange sight: indeed, the bear
was there, still standing on its hind legs, but severely wounded,
ready to fall over. My father had shot it right between the eyes.
The bear was dark brown, almost black, and stood about two meters tall.

The strange part was that a man
was standing next to the bear. The bear and the man had been
facing each other, and the man had been touching the bear with
his hands. The man was dressed all in black and had a black mask
over his face. As the man looked up toward me, he pulled the mask
away and showed his face. He was only about 20 years old,
white, with blond hair. He was strikingly innocent and handsome
looking.

From the look of shock and
sadness on his face I quickly surmised that the man had been a friend
of the bear. In fact, he was devoted to the bear, and took care
of it. By now the bear was lying on its back, either dead or
about to die. I feared the man might try to take revenge, but I
quickly saw that the man had no such intention, that he merely
looked at my father and me as deranged fools; he only intended to try
to escape from us. I would have liked to have talked to
him, to try to explain, but in an instant he was gone.

Now it was all clear to me.
Yes, there were still some bears which lived in this building, but they didn't hurt anyone. In fact there were a few men who
lived with the bears, who loved them and took care of them. Only
cruel people like my father came to hunt the bears for sport. I
was beside myself with rage at my father for having killed the
bear, and for bringing me along as a party to the crime. I turned
to him, fired a barrage of profanities at him, and ended by
screaming, "You fucking bastard!"

I turned to our other
companion, who was no longer a male, but a female: a woman who
was my father's mother. She also looked as if she were only about
50 years old. I screamed at her, telling her what her
demented son had done. Both she and my father seemed completely
surprised by my outburst, and they couldn't seem to understand why I
would care if they killed a bear. I ran from them through the
labyrinthine rooms and halls.

When I finally stopped, I had a
better picture of the building: a high-rise office
building in London. Part of the building had been abandoned and
perhaps 50-60 bears lived in the abandoned part. Even
though there were so few bears, they were allowed to be killed
because we were right in the middle of a huge metropolis and the
authorities were afraid the bears would hurt someone.

Parts of the building were still in use; I finally came out in
a section which was used as a department store. People were hustling about and
shopping just as they would in any department store. Looking around, I noticed Ringo Starr standing not far away. I thought I
might go over and talk with him about the bears. For some reason,
at first, I thought that he spoke Spanish and that I should speak with
him in Spanish. But then I realized that of course he was from
England and he spoke English. However I decided not to approach
him.

Instead I simply slid down
onto the floor and sat next to a counter. A woman was looking at
something next to me. I wished I had someone to talk to about the
bears. But mostly I just felt an overwhelming sadness. Before I
had even realized it, I had begun crying, slowly at first, then
quite loudly. I was crying both for the bear, and for the young
man who had lost his close friend. It was uncharacteristic for me
to be crying and sobbing like that, but I couldn't seem to help
myself. Would the woman shopping next to me notice
and say something?